knelt in front of Sarah and reached for the doll. Her hands were trembling, and she took the lumpy rag body quickly into her lap. It lay there limply, grossly reminiscent of a broken human being, bits of stuffing leaking from the torn neck. Belle poked at it with her fingers. "You'd better have Grandma sew this up, or she'll lose all her insides."
"It's her guts," Sarah informed her.
Belle nodded. "I know."
"I'm gonna bury her tomorrow if I can't find her head."
Belle looked at her somberly, wishing she could think of what to say, knowing with some far part of her mind that she had wanted this opportunity to make friends with Sarah, had wished for it. And once again Rand had ruined things. It was the first time Sarah had said more than a few words to her, yet Belle was too shaken to think of a single thing to say back.
She got to her feet. "Well, then," she said inanely. "Why don't we go see if we can find it first?"
Sarah looked at her, hesitating for a moment, still cautious. "If we can't, will you come to her fun'ral tomorrow?"
"Sure," Belle nodded distractedly. "I'll come."
"Good." Sarah smiled. "You c'n bring the flow'rs."
T he acidic tang of cabbage was heavy in the kitchen. It, along with the anisy scent of caraway seed, nearly knocked Rand back when he came into the room. He grimaced as he grabbed a cup of coffee and slumped into the rocker by the stove. They'd been making sauerkraut; the thought depressed him. God, he hated sauerkraut, the smell of it, the slimy feel, the sour taste. It reminded him of when he was young. It had been his mother's favorite food, the thing she ate whenever she was depressed or lonely, the dinner she served whenever she was begging for his father's forgiveness.
Which was always, he thought angrily. The house had always held the odor of sauerkraut. Always. He couldn't smell it now without thinking of her, of the way she'd been, sad and too penitent, throwing herself in Henry's lap while his father flushed with embarrassment, her
voice sharp with fear. "I'm sorry, love—oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to act so jealous. You were just askin' Dorothy if she needed anythin', I know that now. It's just that . . . I'm so afraid you'll leave me. Please say you won't leave me. ..."
Rand winced and pushed the memory away.
"I kept some dinner warm for you," Lillian said as she walked into the room. "Are you hungry?"
Rand scowled. "This whole damn place smells like cabbage."
"We made sauerkraut today," she answered lightly. She moved past him to the stove, her calico skirt brushing against his arm, and spooned some stew into a big yellow bowl. "I know you hate it, Rand, but I don't, and I'm not letting all that cabbage go to waste just because you don't like the smell."
He felt instantly rebuked; the feeling annoyed him. Rand took the bowl she offered him, but the scent of cabbage was strong in it as well, and he set it back on the stove with a clank. "I'm not hungry. Where's Sarah?"
"In bed. She seemed tired today, so I put her down early."
He felt a twinge of guilt, and he took another sip of coffee, letting the steam warm his face.
"Belle's on the front porch."
He didn't look up. "I didn't ask where she was."
Lillian sighed, sitting in the chair at the other side of the huge fireplace that housed the stove. He heard her rustling in her sewing box before she settled back. "What did the two of you talk about today?"
He looked up in surprise. Lillian had a sock formed around her darning ball, and she was busily threading a needle, squinting at it to focus.
"I tried to keep her here in the kitchen," she said when he didn't answer, "but the first chance she had, she was gone. I assumed she wanted to talk to you about something."
"No." Rand stared at her, at her tight, economical movements, and struggled to keep his feelings at bay. All evening he'd tried to keep from thinking about this afternoon. He'd buried himself in chores, working until he could no
"It's her guts," Sarah informed her.
Belle nodded. "I know."
"I'm gonna bury her tomorrow if I can't find her head."
Belle looked at her somberly, wishing she could think of what to say, knowing with some far part of her mind that she had wanted this opportunity to make friends with Sarah, had wished for it. And once again Rand had ruined things. It was the first time Sarah had said more than a few words to her, yet Belle was too shaken to think of a single thing to say back.
She got to her feet. "Well, then," she said inanely. "Why don't we go see if we can find it first?"
Sarah looked at her, hesitating for a moment, still cautious. "If we can't, will you come to her fun'ral tomorrow?"
"Sure," Belle nodded distractedly. "I'll come."
"Good." Sarah smiled. "You c'n bring the flow'rs."
T he acidic tang of cabbage was heavy in the kitchen. It, along with the anisy scent of caraway seed, nearly knocked Rand back when he came into the room. He grimaced as he grabbed a cup of coffee and slumped into the rocker by the stove. They'd been making sauerkraut; the thought depressed him. God, he hated sauerkraut, the smell of it, the slimy feel, the sour taste. It reminded him of when he was young. It had been his mother's favorite food, the thing she ate whenever she was depressed or lonely, the dinner she served whenever she was begging for his father's forgiveness.
Which was always, he thought angrily. The house had always held the odor of sauerkraut. Always. He couldn't smell it now without thinking of her, of the way she'd been, sad and too penitent, throwing herself in Henry's lap while his father flushed with embarrassment, her
voice sharp with fear. "I'm sorry, love—oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to act so jealous. You were just askin' Dorothy if she needed anythin', I know that now. It's just that . . . I'm so afraid you'll leave me. Please say you won't leave me. ..."
Rand winced and pushed the memory away.
"I kept some dinner warm for you," Lillian said as she walked into the room. "Are you hungry?"
Rand scowled. "This whole damn place smells like cabbage."
"We made sauerkraut today," she answered lightly. She moved past him to the stove, her calico skirt brushing against his arm, and spooned some stew into a big yellow bowl. "I know you hate it, Rand, but I don't, and I'm not letting all that cabbage go to waste just because you don't like the smell."
He felt instantly rebuked; the feeling annoyed him. Rand took the bowl she offered him, but the scent of cabbage was strong in it as well, and he set it back on the stove with a clank. "I'm not hungry. Where's Sarah?"
"In bed. She seemed tired today, so I put her down early."
He felt a twinge of guilt, and he took another sip of coffee, letting the steam warm his face.
"Belle's on the front porch."
He didn't look up. "I didn't ask where she was."
Lillian sighed, sitting in the chair at the other side of the huge fireplace that housed the stove. He heard her rustling in her sewing box before she settled back. "What did the two of you talk about today?"
He looked up in surprise. Lillian had a sock formed around her darning ball, and she was busily threading a needle, squinting at it to focus.
"I tried to keep her here in the kitchen," she said when he didn't answer, "but the first chance she had, she was gone. I assumed she wanted to talk to you about something."
"No." Rand stared at her, at her tight, economical movements, and struggled to keep his feelings at bay. All evening he'd tried to keep from thinking about this afternoon. He'd buried himself in chores, working until he could no
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